Bend Sinister
by RelentlessRecusant
Summary: A world disintegrates - millions die in seconds. Hysteria and paranoia abound, and the Council launches interspecies Task Force 452 into the Terminus. Their mission: murder those responsible and recover their weapon. The bend sinister starts now.


**Mass Effect – Bend Sinister**

By RelentlessRecusant, December 2009

* * *

_Dramatis Personae_

**Alliance Marine Force Reconnaissance, 184th Marine Expeditionary Force** (**MEF**)

Staff Lieutenant "Prophet", Commanding Officer

Gunnery Chief "Archer", Noncommissioned Officer in Charge

Service Chief "Chemo", Chemical Weapons Specialist

Service Chief "Crypto", Dedicated Signals Specialist

Corporal "Demon", Designated Sharpshooter

Corporal "Tyrant", Surreptitious Entry Specialist

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: STORM JUMP**

* * *

**SSV **_**Resolve**_ (**CV-294**), **Systems Alliance Navy**

**Maroon Sea, Caspian System**,** Clotanca**

**Alliance Marine Force Reconnaissance, 184th Marine Expeditionary Force**

ITS VISAGE WAS DEPLORABLE—its feral lines burned crimson with argent fire, and its mechanical body coruscated with azure radiance. Its physique was distinctly angular, its body lean to the point that its features became cruel and hard. The very brevity and expressionless of its features, its rigid and sleek contours, betrayed a singular purpose for its construction—to _kill_.

In five billion years of thermonuclear existence, Caspian's starlight had never fallen upon such a hideous and bellicose instrument of death.

Its tail vanes trickled aquamarine radiation into space as it effortlessly eloped in a linear trajectory towards Caspian's star—and its innermost planet. Its lustrous hull sparkled with punctuate cyan running lights: behind the sealed viewports, there were stalwart men and women, clad in martial dress, brazenly looking down upon the morbid star system they come to take war to.

Flanking the SSV _Resolve_ were its attendants: spread-winged mechanical predators trailing in the wake of their leader, feral and alert.

Aboard the flag bridge of the _Resolve_, there was commotion: uniformed officers and sailors, engaged in the electronic and verbal transactions of orders and dutiful replies as Alliance Carrier Battle Group Sixteen embarked for pre-combat preparations.

Idly gazing at the approaching star was Rear Admiral Reynolds—tall and gaunt, his body had the rigidity and angularity that characterized the _Resolve_'s lethal complexion. His face, which would have been handsome, was pockmarked with scars—much akin to the disfigurement lifeless Luna had suffered from repeated meteor impacts. Caspian's distant crimson starlight illuminated the deep ravines and bitter wounds that stitched Reynold's face, delineating the breadth and depth of the physical tragedy of his face.

Crisply uniformed in the aquamarine tunic of the Navy's Officer Corps, two distinct silver articles clung to his opposing collars: one, the arrowhead of the Systems Alliance, the second, a miniaturized depiction of Earth—the homeworld of the human race, emblematic of all they had sworn to protect. Over one breast was the single austere star of a full Rear Admiral of the Alliance Navy, and on the other was the word "REYNOLDS" in boldface text. A neat rectangle of assorted medallions and campaign honors were appropriately arranged underneath his digitized name tag.

With his hands clasped behind his back and his figure gazing at the distant light that shone from Caspian's sun, his visage was redoubtable: his tall and embittered figure was enshrouded in a halo of incandescent rubicund light from the distant star.

Two junior officers respectfully approached him from behind—Reynolds saw their reflections in the translucent polarized glass panes, and turned to address them.

They exchanged perfunctory salutes.

"Sir", began the carrier's Operations Officer, a full Staff Commander, "deployment phase is complete. All vessels are decelerating to one-third flank and are awaiting your orders."

"Sir", began the carrier's Air Officer, another Staff Commander, "Carrier Air Wing One-Six is mobile. Little birds are ready to fly on your order."

Without turning, Reynolds addressed them, his vision fixated on the bloodshot bloom of Caspian's star before them.

"Upgrade the alert to Red One. Firm up the interceptor screen at three hundred clicks. Notify the detachment commander that I am authorizing the counterforce protocol for the One-Eight-Four."

"Sir."

As they turned to carry out his orders, Reynolds finally canted his head back towards them.

"Ops?"

The Operations Officer halted and turned attentively to face him.

"Yes sir?"

Reynolds's expression held an uncharacteristic gravity as his lips produced only a single sentence.

"Remind the Marines one thing—this is for Elysium."

* * *

"Mission is go at rolex plus five. I repeat—final mission authorization has been granted. The One-Eight-Four is released."

Archer's eyes canted to the loudspeaker's metallic grid as the announcement was repeated once more—and then to the Marines flanking him to either side in staging compartment.

There were no words to be exchanged amongst the special operators—only a grim certainty in their eyes as they regarded each other and themselves.

Prophet's eyes panned over his men, and gathering the surety in their eyes, nodded and jerked a thumb towards the hangar bay.

"This is it. Let's roll."

* * *

The hangar bay was a kaleidoscopic pandemonium: strobing lights, the strident cry of alighting ion engines, and replete with camouflaged Sailors and Marines, some readying for battle, others merely an audience.

As the six Force Reconnaissance operators made their entrance into the hangar bay, the others instantly regarded them. Archer and the others fell in measured lockstep behind Prophet—polarized visors obfuscated all vestiges of humanity from their faces, and the luster of their obsidian combat hardsuits shimmered underneath the rouge hue of the emergency lights.

As they navigated the overpopulated confines of the bay, Sailors and Marines alike stopped, drawing crisply into salutes as they passed. The thunder of their chants matched the syncopated throb of his pulse, the beat of Archer's heart.

The overhead lights burned a little brighter—the heat of his body rose a little higher. His world sharpened in resolution, and Archer felt the anger trickle through his veins, and felt himself become overtaken the familiar sense of purpose that prefaced murder.

The troopship's ion engines pulsated: they ignited and a sheen of cerulean fire began to envelop them. Static filled the air—a corybantic scream split the hangar bay.

At the head of the column of commandos, Prophet inclined his visored head towards the rest of them, and made only a discernible nod. "Go—_go!_"

The special operators began a run to the troopship—vigor fuelled his muscles, and he felt his rifle sway with every heavily-laden footstep.

There was a helmeted Navy crew chief at the foot of the troopship, beckoning them with a wave of his hand.

One by the one, the Marines boarded their mechanical mount—their ferry to the lines of battle.

Before entering the blackened maw of the troopship, Archer turned on his heel, looking back at the _Resolve_ one final time.

The downthrust of the troopship's engines tore at his austere figure as he looked down upon them—at the fore of the troopship, the pilot was standing in the opened canopy, in salute.

Viridian-uniformed personnel were scrambling from the nose as the troopship—more fore in the mouth of the hangar bay, there was a single Navy officer clad in gold—he was kneeling to the ground, one arm raised to the ceiling, and another towards the terminus of the hangar bay.

This was it.

Archer looked down at a sea of expectant faces.

Then, he entered the troopship, and sealed shut the bay door.

A moment later, the troopship's engines reached their full fury—and they broke free from the _Resolve_. Behind them, the _Resolve_ and Carrier Battle Group Sixteen were already rapidly diminishing: instead, Archer turned his eyes to the crescent of the approaching planet, watching Caspian's star's refulgent light spill over the horizon, illuminating the azure tapestry of Clotanca's atmosphere. The world shimmered—a globe of turquoise skies and cobalt thunder, held in abeyance against the silent depths of space.

Punctuating the fertile field of punctuate stars were actinic lights: the ion exhausts of their fighter escorts against their blackened hulls.

Behind them, the _Resolve_ was maneuvering, orienting the tapered needle of her heel to face Caspian's star head-on—an arrowhead of war. Humanity in defiance of the stars and the celestial order.

Archer's blood thundered with the heat of battle.

There was the crackle of electronic transmissions in the background, the accompanying rustle of voices that was as natural to Archer as the cosmic microwave background was to the universe.

Chemo canted his head at him. "You got this one, Chief?"

"Affirmative."

Aside him, his teammates were beginning their preparatory rituals—inspecting weapons, perusing the glazed surface of their darkened hardsuits. Archer instead turned his perception to the swelling sphere of Clotanca: he noted the muted incandescence that pulsated through its atmosphere, the thunder that trickled though its violent skies.

In space, all was beautiful—so silent, so pristine. The celestial bodies which had existed for billions of years: when juxtaposed against the virile cornucopia of stars of the Milky Way Galaxy, it was an utterly captivating beauty.

_All those stars—all those worlds—_

Archer rose his eyes to Caspian's unfamiliar light: the luster of its caustic light, the color of arterial blood. Vanes of bloodshot light fanned from Caspian onto Clotanca: the beryl character of the planet became besmirched from Caspian's ill light.

Crypto's voice echoed through the vessel's interior.

"Strike Five reports that electronic warfare mission is online. He reports successful defeat of the primary objective's sensor suite throughout the entire spectrum."

Demon's chuckle was derisive. "So the fleeties did their job right for once."

Chemo was gyrating a blackened titanium carbide knife in his hands.

"Nah, Navy ain't that fucked up all the time—remember Torfan?"

Archer raised his eyes from the cosmic tapestry of stars and worlds to address his subordinates. As he turned, the yonder starlight glittered off of his hardsuit's shoulder pauldron: where the word "AIRBORNE" was printed over the upraised sword emblem of Alliance Force Reconnaissance.

"Navy might jump back out of orbit, but they send us in to finish up the job. That's why we're here—the One-Eight-Four Marines."

Prophet strode from the cockpit, the argent twin enameled bars of a Staff Lieutenant (a Captain, in retrograde Marine terms) chiaroscuro against his raven hardsuit.

"That's right, team. Navy has its ships—but the Marines are always there to stay and fight on the hard earth. You know why we're on Clotanca: let's finish this—and finish what they started with the Skyllian Verge."

A bitter smile adorned Tyrant's lips.

"I hear 'ya, Captain."

A veil of avid fire inveigled the troopship—beyond the viewports, there was only fire from the heat of atmospheric reentry.

They were beginning to land.

* * *

"Gas and packs!" called out Prophet. "Make secure all seals and kinetics."

Archer looked down at the colorless ampoule fitted into the forearm guard, and depressed a recessed control: the alien fluids seeped instantaneously into the intravenous catheter and disseminated into his vein. The familiar heady sense of power rose to his forehead as the drugs seeped through his circulation.

His gaze mechanically proceeded to the Kovalyov assault rifle in his hands, appended with an underslung shotgun and a digital aiming reference. The elongated body of the Kovalyov was digitized black and grey pixels: military digital camouflage, the urban battle colors of the Alliance Marines. He turned over the rifle in his hands and extended the stock manually—the motion triggered the rifle's wireless linkage to his hardsuit, and a moment later, his vision was populated with cyan pastels and scrolling digits as his holographic HUD was activated and 3D scanning lasers splayed out in his visor. Four verdant lights flared to life at the bottom of his HUD: the Kovalyov was securely linked to his hardsuit's tactical transceiver and indicated one thousand virtual test-firings without incident. Thirty rounds of hollow-tipped anti-organic (AO) shredder rounds were currently chambered.

Crimson running lights burned alive along the length of his hardsuit—the Colossus hardsuit was activating itself: there was a pneumatic rustle as it self-sealed all exposed articulations and initiated self-circulation of the internal air supply. A slight azure sheen subtly ensheathed his forearm: evidence that the personal kinetic barriers were operational.

Archer jabbed a gloved thumb upwards in affirmation. "Archer is online and secure."

"Chemo is green and lit."

"Crypto is at one hundred percent."

"Demon here."

"Tyrant ready."

Prophet nodded firmly and looked at Archer.

"Punch it, Chief."

With a nod, Archer unfurled the troopship's bay door—the Alliance commandos were momentarily impelled towards the opening and the writhing maw of intertwined thunder and storm beyond it as they were drawn in from the negative air pressure exerted by the supersonic storm winds outside.

Archer's gloved fingers clasped the troopship's jumpseat handles for traction: the external maelstrom entered the troopship's troop compartment until they were all regaled with the supersonic winds and the storm's desolating cries even drowned out the syncopation of the ion engines until they needed to use the hardsuits' internal comms to communicate.

The troopship began to decelerate—Archer clenched the handles tightly as the winds attempted to consume him, to fling him out into the abyss.

"This is our stop!" barked Prophet on the comms. He extended a single arm perpendicular to his body—angling outwards, towards the turbulent convulsion of wind and lightning just beyond the troopship's opened doors. "_Go!_"

With great effort, Archer inclined his helmeted head to the crew chief for confirmation—the Navy officer gave a thumbs-up.

Archer looked towards the storm's frothy depths once more, and then released his fingers from the handles.

The supersonic wind consumed him, and there was lightning and fire all around him.

Archer fell forever through the storm.


End file.
